


Here We Go Again

by vatreniworld



Series: Luka Wins Everything [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Aka Real's super dry spell, Crack, Gen, Superpowers, Written during some dark times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 05:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17155940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vatreniworld/pseuds/vatreniworld
Summary: It was time for Vanja to take matters into her own hands.





	Here We Go Again

**Author's Note:**

> Musical Inspiration: “Hello, World” by BUMP OF CHICKEN
> 
> Crossposted from my blog.

_Saturday 6 October, 2018_

_Modrić Residence_

“PASS IT TO PAPA!” Ema yelled at the television, smacking her hand against the coffee table.

Ivano groaned and fell backwards off the arm of the loveseat into the cushions.

Sofia grabbed her sippy cup of apple juice and downed the rest of it.

Vanja watched the plays unfold in the second half of the match versus Alavés with a pained look pinching at the corners of her eyes with each passing second.

“Are you okay, mama?” Ema asked, brows furrowed in both intense concentration and concern.

Vanja knew exactly what needed to happen. It was risky, but if she and the kids managed to execute the plan forming in her mind perfectly, then there would be minimal fallout afterwards.

“Yes, Ema. I am.”

In the final seconds of the game, Alavés scored their lone goal with roars of appreciation from the stands drowning out the commentators.

Vanja switched off the television. Determined, she grabbed her phone off the arm of her chair and punched in the fourth number on her speed dial.

“Hello, Mr. Pérez. This is Vanja Bosnić. I have a proposition for you. Do you think we could meet on Monday?”

* * *

_Tuesday 9 October, 2018_

_Real Madrid Practice Field_

Luka dragged a hand down his face as he strolled onto the main practice field.

On the far side of the field, Raphael was half-stretching-half-laying in the grass while pondering the meaning of life.

Gareth looked a little worse for wear during his Achilles tendon stretches. It might have just been Luka’s imagination, but he swore he saw Gareth chug two different energy drinks before he left the locker room.

Marcelo was trying to work out the kinks in his left shoulder, but judging by the grimace on his face the exercises proved to be no good.

Luka sighed. He was tired. They  _all_  were.

Most of all, he was sick of the insinuations that he was a worthless player again, despite all of his accomplishments with Real and the national team. Were he and Real truly nothing without Cr-?

“Luka,” a voice called from behind him.

Luka spun on his heel to find Vanja approaching him.

“Hi…draga,” Luka choked out and kissed her on the cheek. He leaned to side slightly to peek around her shoulder, expecting to find one or all of the kids trailing behind her. When he found only empty space, he licked his lips, “Did I forget something?”

Vanja shook her head. “No.”

“Oh, good… Then, why are you here?”

“Funny you should ask that…,” she trailed off.

Not a second later, Florentino Pérez strode onto the field, his pallor paler than Luka had seen in years.

Out of habit, the team fell into line in front of the team’s president.

Pérez cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back. “Starting today, Vanja Bosnić will be your manager.”

Marcelo raised his hand, a byproduct of a few too many parent-teacher conferences concerning Liam.

Pérez sighed wearily, muttered something that sounded like ‘Lord, what did I do to deserve this?,’ and nodded for Marcelo to continue.

Marcelo dropped his hand with a loud thwack against the side of his thigh. “What happened to Lopetegui?” he asked, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Silence stretched out for an uncomfortable period of time as Pérez and Marcelo blinked vacuously at each other.

Vanja took the time to inspect some invisible dirt under her fingernails, recalling the series of events that landed her in this position.

* * *

_Forty-Eight Hours Earlier_

_Sunday 7 October, 2018_

_Lopetegui Residence_

Julen Lopetegui was already on his second glass of scotch (at least three fingers worth) of the day and it wasn’t even-

He glanced down at the watch on his wrist.  _14:07_  it read.

The phrase ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere’ rang through his mind, but he never imagined he would use it as an excuse - let alone turn to alcohol - when he signed on to be the manager of Real Madrid.

To make matters worse, the powers that be for the club (or ‘the high rollers’ as he dubbed them to his wife) were quickly turning from antsy to surly.

He ran a hand through his hair, the oil and rain from yesterday’s game he had yet to wash out coating his fingers. The tide of Real’s games need to shift and  _fast_.

“If only for my sake,” he muttered to himself and gulped the rest of his scotch.

The doorbell rang three times in succession.

He frowned - someone at his front door on a Sunday afternoon? - and placed his glass on the the mantle of the fireplace before heading to the foyer.

He opened the door, expecting to find someone, but when he looked around to find nothing, he assumed it was a prank pulled by some of the local teenagers.

As he turned to slink back inside, a voice peeped, “Down here.”

Lopetegui whirled around and startled backwards at the sight of all three Modrić children standing on his front stoop - Ivano on the left, Ema in the middle, and little Sofia on the right holding Ema’s hand.

“Hello, children…,” he croaked. “What can I do for you?” He glanced up and down the street once more. “Is your mother or father with you?”

Ivano and Ema shook their heads in synchronized form.

“Aren’t you the kids who hogtied me at the Sevilla match?”

“What Sevilla match?” Ema retorted.

Lopetegui couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the situation in which he found himself, but a piercing headache drilled its way through his skull.

“We came here to see you, Mr. Lopetegui,” Ivano explained.

That much was obvious, but it didn’t give him any actual answers.

“Why don’t you three come inside and I’ll contact your parents?” he said more than asked and opened the door to give the children a wide berth.

Ema turned her nose in the air as she crossed the threshold with Sofia. “You smell like Uncle Mandžo after he’s had too much rakija,” she deadpanned.

Ivano elbowed her in the side and muttered something in what Lopetegui assumed was Croatian.

Lopetegui lead the trio to the living room and gestured for them to sit on the couch. Swiping up his empty glass, he headed towards the kitchen, saying, “Please wait here while I go call your father.”

“Okay,” Ivano and Ema droned together.

Lopetegui felt a chill crawl up his arms, but shook it off. He must have had too much to drink already. He was just being paranoid.

Once he placed his glass by the sink in the kitchen to wash later he scoured the rest of the surfaces for his cellphone. He could’ve sworn he left it on the island.

“Looking for something?” Ema asked blandly from the other end of the room.

Lopetegui jumped, hitting his head on the underside of the upper kitchen cabinets in the process.

Gingerly touching the lump on the back of his skull, he hissed, “I thought I told you to stay in the living room.” He turned around to find all three Modrić children lined up again, this time with Ivano in the middle holding Sofia’s hand.

“You did,” Ema replied dryly. “But we need to do something before you call our parents.”

Lopetegui rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. Once I find my phone, you three are  _gone_.”

“You mean this?” Ema asked and extended her hand forward.

An energy Lopetegui couldn’t identify coursed through the air and before he could process what was happening, his cell phone flew out from under a stack of unopened letters on the island and sailed straight into Ema’s hand.

He opened and closed his mouth like a gawking fish.

“Now that we have your attention,” Ivano stated, “we have a demand to make.”

That snapped Lopetegui out of his stupor. He stared Ivano down and curled a fist at his side. “Now, listen here, you brats. I’ve never been intimidated by anyone in my life and I don’t plan on starting with pipsqueaks like you.”

Ema and Ivano glanced at each other, muttering, “Should we go ahead?”

“Might as well.”

Ivano snapped his fingers and the gas burners next to Lopetegui’s head ignited.

Lopetegui squawked like a dying seagull and floundered away from the pillar of fire that threatened to engulf his hair. “WHAT THE F-?!”

Ivano snapped again and the candles in the candelabra on the island closest to them burned like flares.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” Lopetegui shrieked.

“We want you to resign as manager of Real!” Ema bellowed back.

“Yeah!” Sofia chimed in, raising a fist in the air.

Lopetegui sneered, “Over my dead body.”

Ema shrugged. “Okay.”

“What?” the manager deflated.

“Sofia,” Ivano cooed, “it’s your turn.”

If it were possible, Sofia raised her meaty fist even further in the air and pounded it against the edge of the granite island. As a result, the countertop separated from the base and shot like a rocket across the kitchen, through the bay windows of the breakfast nook, and landed directly on top of the hedge cut in the shape of a duckling.

Lopetegui’s jaw fell to the floor, his voice failing to produce any coherent sound.

Sofia hit a guts pose. “Sofia mash!” she babbled.

“Close enough,” Ivano responded, ruffling the baby’s hair.

A few moments later, Lopetegui found his voice again. “You….You three will pay for this.”

“How so?” Ema asked, tone bored.

“I’ll call the police right now.”

“Go right ahead. As if they’ll believe you,” Ivano said.

Lopetegui narrowed his eyes.

“Or,” Ivano continued in a sing-song voice, “you could just resign and save yourself the embarrassment.”

“What didn’t you understand about ‘over my dead body’?”

Ivano smacked his lips, “Suit yourself. C’mon, guys, let’s go home. Ema, don’t forget to leave his phone.”

“Awww,” Ema whined, but obliged as she followed Ivano and Sofia out of the kitchen.

Lopetegui heard the front door shut and immediately scrambled for his cell phone and dialed the police.

* * *

Pérez tugged at the lapel of his collar. “Santa Maria Mental Hospital informed me late last night that Lopetegui suffered a serious mental break brought on by severe amounts of stress. The doctors at the hospital suspected that the drought here at the club was partially to blame, though they weren’t certain what caused his delusions.”

Luka cocked his head. “Delusions?” he echoed.

Pérez pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, it’s quite sad, actually. Lopetegui told me himself over the phone that he had - and I quote - ‘been a victim of telekinesis, nearly burned alive, and watched a toddler hurl his kitchen counter through the dining room.’”

Nervous laughter traveled over the crowd gathered while Luka’s jaw snapped shut and his eyes bulged at Vanja.

“ _WHAT DID THE KIDS DO_?!” he howled mentally.

Vanja rolled her eyes and made a twisting motion with her fingers that made Luka’s jacket zip all the way to the top on its own.

Luka floundered like a turtle caught on the back of his shell.

“Which brings me to my next point of order,” Pérez continued and gestured for Vanja to step forward. “In the interim of this season, Mrs. Vanja Bosnić will be in managing the club.”

Silence settled over the team like a wet blanket.

“Really?” Raphael dared to break the silence.

Vanja nodded.

Gareth sagged forward over Luka with a huff of relief, tears of joy glistening at the corners of his eyes.

“You okay, Gareth?” Luka asked as he tried to unzip his jacket only to find the zipper stuck.

“I’m just so happy,” Gareth sniffled.

Thibaut ran across the pitch, screeching, “I’M FREE!”

Vanja raised an eyebrow. “Well,” she snorted, “this isn’t exactly the welcome I expected, but it’ll work.” She clapped her hands together. “So, who’s ready to get started?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the team beamed.

At the end of the day, after the rest of the team packed up and left for home, Luka and Vanja dawdled through the halls hand-in-hand.

“How exactly  _did_  you get the position, draga?” Luka asked.

Vanja licked her lips. “The kids and I can be quite persuasive,” she smiled far too innocently given the events of the past two days.

“Did the kids really have to put Lopetegui in a mental hospital?” Luka whispered followed by a gulp.

Vanja winced. “That was an accident. They were only meant to scare him away, but they said he was pretty insistent on calling the police.”

Luka sighed. Never a dull moment, he thought.

He tightened his hold of Vanja’s hand. “Still, I’m glad you’re here…”

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “Me too,” she responded quietly. “Now, we should probably get home before Sofia scares another babysitter. I don’t want to have to erase another one’s memory.”

Luka chuckled. He wasn’t certain that Real’s problems could be solved in a single day, but it was worth a try and if it happened to be shoulder-to-shoulder with his family, all the better.

**Author's Note:**

> If you thought Thibaut sounded like Dobby you're the MVP.


End file.
